The final week before Hemlock’s opening is hectic. Jim Stevens and his crew earn every cent of their astronomical paycheck. Despite the horrendous pressure, their work is flawless. Not one drip of paint, not a single misplaced screw.

Boxes upon boxes arrive and are unpacked. No soft products yet, but the focal lighting fixtures for the waiting area, over the bar, and throughout the dining room are installed. The complex lamella grid behind the bar is assembled and attached to the wall. (And it’s perfect.)

Between Wednesday and Friday, the mix of custom and ready-made furniture arrives from the suppliers. Not an hour after the last of the huge crates are unloaded, installers from the various companies arrive. The containers are unpacked with alacrity. Each piece revealed is exact to specifications and pristine. To my inner design geek, it’s Christmas.

By ten on Friday night, the areas with fixed bench seating are complete, and the dining room and bar area are filled with dense clusters of tables and chairs.

Jim orders pizza delivery for the team, then breaks open a box near the bar. He whistles as he lifts a bottle of single malt scotch. “Hey Thea,” he says, brows waggling. “Think the boss will mind?”

I laugh. “He can take it out of your paycheck, cowboy.”

A smooth, low voice replies, “That won’t be necessary. Consider it on the house.”

“Much obliged, Mr. Hughes,” says Jim cheekily.

I turn, my expression politely impassive. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him since last Saturday. Contrary to my fervent wishes, repetition hasn’t lessened the effect he has on me. The sight of him still steals my breath, thrills my skin, and twists my gut to knots.

I have, however, discovered a new generation of emotional armor. Instead of attaching it haphazardly on the outside, I build it from within. I armor myself with the truth. I love him and will continue loving him. And despite the hollow ache in my heart, I have no regrets for revealing it. That he knows is a relief. And as Lillian foretold, also relieving is not being haunted by what-ifs.

Alex stands in the waiting area with Matthew, Adam, and an unfamiliar man I realize must be Hemlock’s new manager. The architects are grinning, gazing avidly at the changes a few short days have wrought. Beside them, the manager has the shining eyes of a new father. He wanders into the dining room, fingers trailing lightly over surfaces. I don’t begrudge him his excitement but am nevertheless annoyed by the prospect of fingerprints.

Alex, too, gazes around the transformed space. Hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, he looks relaxed, confident, and contained. Powerful. The tycoon.

Gaze still roaming, he says, “Ms. Sands, are you pleased with the progress?”

“Yes,” I reply. “And you?”

He nods, eyes finding mine. I stiffen, but don’t wilt, at the impact. “Very much so,” he murmurs.

Adam clears his throat. “It’s looking great, Thea.”

“I can’t take any credit,” I say, gesturing toward the fifteen men standing or sitting around the bar area. “These guys are my heroes.”

Jim’s right-hand man, Tommy, laughs and throws an arm over my shoulders. “This woman is a tyrant,” he says, and a chorus of humored agreement sounds.

“I’m not complaining!” shouts one of the men. Several salacious whistles follow. I roll my eyes, used to it.

Alex asks darkly, “Ms. Sands, may I speak with you a moment?”

Hair lifts on my nape. I extricate myself from Tommy and walk quickly through the waiting area and outside. Once I’m far enough for privacy but still in view of Matthew, I cross my arms and wait.

Alex mirrors my stance. I can’t read his expression—I don’t try. Just being near him is like enduring tiny electrical storms. Until I never have to see him again, I know these moments will continue to be a brutal test of endurance. The finish line is near, though. I can do this.

“What do you need?” I ask.

“I wanted to see you alone.”

My heart leaps, then plummets as he hands me a business card. Déjà vu. On the back is a handwritten name, Annette Smith, and a phone number. “Who’s this?”

“Robert White’s sister. Your aunt.”

Time slows. “What?” I whisper, scanning his shadowed eyes. “He was an only child.”

Alex shakes his head, expression softening. “I know he never mentioned siblings in his journals, probably because it was too painful for him. After his parents died, his grandmother could only take care of one child. Annette was a year younger and was adopted by another family, who then relocated to Colorado. It wasn’t exactly aboveboard. She was very difficult to find, having married young and changed her name. If Robert ever tried to track her down, he likely failed. You have cousins, too. Five of them.”

“How did—” I shake my head. Of course he would possess the necessary resources. I can’t resist taking a step closer to him. “You’re sure? She’s my aunt?”

“Yes, Thea,” he says gently. “DNA confirms it.”

I frown in confusion. “DNA?”

He rubs a hand over his jaw, grimacing. “I, uh, found one of your hairs in the shower.”

I blink in surprise, then laugh helplessly. “You sent my hair to a DNA lab? That’s so creepy. I don’t know whether to hug you or slap you.” The impulsive words make me flush. I add quickly, “I can’t believe this. I don’t know what to say. I assume she knows about me?”

He smiles slightly. “I spoke with her yesterday. She can’t wait to meet you.”

Excitement shivers through me. I shift from foot to foot, resisting an urgent need to hug him, to soak in his heat. “Thank you, Alex,” I say hoarsely. Keep it together. I glance into the restaurant and take a step away, then pause. “Sorry, I should, um… I have to tell Lillian, and call Oliver.”

“Of course,” he says mutedly. “If you want to fly to Colorado, let me know. You can borrow my plane. Anytime you need it, it’s yours.”

My plane. I clear my throat. “That’s very generous of you, but I’ll fly commercial like everyone else.”

“Lemons,” he whispers.

I wince and meet his affectionate, humored gaze. My heart wrings hard, shooting sparks of pain down my arms.

“Goodnight, Alex,” I say, and walk away.

* * *

Over the weekend, I recruit Lillian, Adam, and Michael to assist with finishing design touches. As we steam fabric, set tables, and plant an abundance of delicate succulents into slim wall troughs, the thirty-person staff of Hemlock convenes for long hours of meetings and training.

There’s a palpable air of anticipation as the leads, servers, hosts, line cooks, bartenders, and bus staff listen to their new manager, David Alcott. He’s a slim, energetic man with a contagious energy reminiscent of Lucy. The head chef (a television personality Lillian knows) also spends hours with the staff, discussing the current seasonal menu, grilling the servers on etiquette, and partaking of an endless flow of red wine.

Sunday afternoon, as the last all-staff meeting wraps up near the bar, I survey my work a final time. Heady pride joins the small sense of loss I feel whenever it’s time to let go of a project.

Tomorrow is the much anticipated first of May. The restaurant will soft-open for dinner hours through Thursday, working out kinks and finalizing the menu. On Friday, the grand opening will take place, complete with a star-packed guest list and press.

As I stare at the beautiful space, a sudden shiver of awareness courses through me. Alex’s dry voice comes from several feet behind me, “Succulents, Ms. Sands?”

I swallow hard, not turning. “It’s a desert, after all.”

“It’s perfect,” he says, the intimate tone rolling heavily through me. My blood moves faster in my veins.

“I think so, too,” I say, and wince at my breathy tone.

Damnit. Damn him.

Lillian approaches swiftly, my scowling savior. Both of our purses hang from her shoulder. “Hey, Alex,” she says curtly, then takes my arm and steers me away. Once out of earshot, she continues, “You and I are going to The Field for a celebratory drink. Jeremy and a couple of other servers are meeting us later.”

“Okay, great,” I say, nodding hard. “Thanks for the search and rescue.”

Her eyes flash with anger. “If I hadn’t listened to you talk to your aunt on the phone today, and known it was Alex’s doing…”

“I know,” I say tiredly. “He gives me whiplash, too.”

We exit the front and step onto the sidewalk. The barricades are down, and glass gleams behind a narrow dining patio bordered by planters of bamboo. Above us, a sign of dark wood cladding proclaims Hemlock in cutout steel letters.

At the northern edge of the patio, Lillian halts me with a gentle tug. “I know you were hesitant to miss the grand opening, but I think we’re doing the right thing leaving for Colorado on Tuesday. You need to get away from him.”

I nod weakly. “Did you book everything?”

She grins. “Don’t hate me, but I chartered a private jet.”

I groan. “Jesus, Lillian.”

“Deal with it,” she says cheekily, then sobers. “So, no contact outside of work? Texts, calls?”

I shake my head. “Nope,” I say, and close my eyes. “There’s something so wrong with me.”

“What are you talking about?”

I drag my hands through my messy hair. “I still want him,” I hiss in a low voice. “It’s like an addiction and I’m in withdrawal. I wake up in the middle of the night and I’m so—ow!” My eyes pop open as fingernails dig painfully into my forearm. “What the hell…” I trail off as I turn and look straight into Alex’s oceanic eyes.

He’s standing less than five feet away. Too close to have not heard me clearly. Fucking brilliant. My face and chest flood with heat.

Lillian whispers, “Come on. Walk, Thebes.” I let her yank me forward, stumbling a little before finding equilibrium. After a block, she sighs heavily. “Remember how I said you two were magnets? I meant planets on a collision course. I stabbed you the second I saw him, I swear. Damn, I need a drink.”

We cross the street, but as Lillian turns toward The Field, I stop abruptly, my arm sliding away from hers. She looks back at me questioningly, then sees what I’ve already seen.

Alex.

He’s following, closing the distance between us with long, predatory strides that mean one thing. And the knowing has pulled my puppet strings taut, set every nerve in my body to ringing.

Taking my purse from Lillian’s shoulder, I say quietly, “I’m going home.”

She glances, wide-eyed, from Alex to me. “Shit. Thebes…”

“Magnets,” I say with a weak shrug, then whisper, “I love him.”

Her eyes well with understanding and sympathy. She gives me a quick hug. “I’ll stay at Adam’s, but my phone will be on if you need me.”

“Thanks, Lil.” She nods, glances once more over my head, and walks away.

I feel him—a wave of heat against my back. Taking a breath, I turn. The same breath squeezes from my lungs at the hunger in his face. He says tightly, “Tell me to leave and I will.”

I offer him my hand. He snatches it before it’s fully extended and bursts into motion, walking quickly in the direction of my condo. I can barely keep up with his longer strides but don’t care. Strangers eye us curiously, but I don’t care.

He shoves through the entrance of my building, pulls me across the lobby and into a waiting elevator. Before the doors even close, I’m in his arms, being lifted fast. I wrap my legs around his waist just as our mouths collide. Starving, I feed, and feed… He’s water in the desert.

We make it inside the condo, spilling the contents of my purse in the process. The door slams and my back hits the wood. I fumble for his belt as he fumbles at my waist.

“What the fuck are these things?” he growls.

“Yoga leggings,” I gasp.

He drops my feet to the floor and yanks the fabric down and off. A second later, I’m back in his arms and against the door. I finally manage to unhook his belt. I seize the zipper.

“Careful,” he warns on a wheeze of laughter.

I hum (my tongue is in his mouth) and carefully unzip his pants. I pull them from his hips and whimper as he immediately presses against me, fingers questing between us. He hesitates.

“You won’t hurt me,” I pant. “Fuck me, Alex. Now.”

One hard thrust, and another, and he’s inside me to the hilt. Whatever momentary pain is gone before I even acknowledge it. I lock my arms around his neck, my ankles behind his back. His thrusts are brutal, the angle almost overwhelming—it’s exactly what I’ve been waking up each night thinking about. Yes… More…

I devour his mouth and his groans, my own throat growing raw with my cries. Without warning, he grabs me hard beneath the thighs and stops moving. Instead, he moves me. The change in sensation is immediate and shattering.

He swallows my screams as I clench and throb around him. He growls against my mouth, “Nothing feels as good as being inside you.”

I silence him with my lips and squeeze him tighter until he shouts hoarsely with his own climax. His legs give out and he drops to his knees, me still cradled in his arms.

“Fucking hell,” he rasps.

I kiss him again, desperate to stave off what’s coming. After a few moments, though, he bends out of reach. “Hey,” he says gently. “Stop a second. Will you look at me?”

And suddenly, the sympathy I’d glimpsed in Lillian’s eyes makes perfect sense.

I scramble off him and run to my bathroom, locking the door behind me. I’m gasping for breath, freezing and hot at once. I want to weep, laugh, and break something. Cold water on my face does nothing for my derailed emotions, only reddening my cheeks further.

I count to one hundred and it helps a little. I can do this. Be strong. I clean myself up as best I can and shrug into my robe, knotting it tightly. In the bedroom, I pull on pajama pants for good measure.

When I walk back into the living room, Alex is dressed and leaning against the front door. For once, he looks far from polished—his hair is a mess, his shirt damp with sweat. On the side of his neck is an angry mark.

I ask weakly, “Did I bite you? I’m sorry.”

Depraved humor flares and dies in his eyes. “I’ll think of it as a souvenir because you’re about to kick me out, aren’t you?”

Stay with me! my heart screams. But I say, “Yes, I’d like you to leave.”

His jaw clenches. “Good girl,” he whispers, then clears his throat and turns. He opens the door, pausing to gaze back at me. The emotion in his eyes takes me back a step. “If I’d asked you to come with me to Boston, would you have?”

Pain cuts through me and I gasp. “That’s not fair.”

“I know,” he says, eyes dark and burning. “It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask you to give me. Just tell me the truth.”

Do I believe in fairy tales?

I think of Margaret and Robert, and yes, I think of what Alex and I shared. Not the chaos, but the simple, effortless moments. Pure and perfect.

“Yes,” I tell him, choking on a sob. “Now get the fuck out.” He doesn’t move, and I explode, “Get out! Now!”

He goes.